


killing moon

by bokutoma



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Character, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Pre-Time Skip, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dimitri doesn't know how to be happy, not underage though because that's fucking nasty, take care of yourself, this is not meant to depict any mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22325872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokutoma/pseuds/bokutoma
Summary: his fangs are out; dimitri knows not how to put them away
Comments: 13
Kudos: 20





	killing moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beastprince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastprince/gifts).



> please don't read this fic if it would be triggering to you!! your health is way more important
> 
> this is a commission for ray! ily <333

_Though I know it must be the killing time_

_Unwillingly mine_

* * *

There is nothing about Dimitri that is not burning.

 _Vile reprobate_ , his father hisses in his ear as he collapses onto the relative safety of his bed. _There is nothing about you that does not stink of the curse you've maligned the Blaiddyd name with_.

 _Black-hearted fiend!_ calls the voice of Patricia, the only mother he's ever truly known, the distance between them turned cold and hard with the weight of his sins. _As you whine and dither about, your malefactions continue to accrue!_

 _You're naught but a wretched pestilence_ , howls Glenn, and Dimitri is writhing, ghosts gone fuzzy and horribly, terribly wrong. _The only thing that holds back our wrath is your role, but inaction will see you dead just the same_!

For once, though, Dimitri isn't listening, hands working at the ties of his uniform, fingers shaking and half-numb. Quietly now, careful enough not to knock a limb into the wall and alert half the monastery to his desperation, but still frantic, still ravenous. Slow it down, because his room is wedged between Sylvain's and Felix's, and if either of them hears, he won't be able to have even this, small though it may be, undeserved though it most certainly is.

Goddess, what a luxury it is to _feel_.

He can rationalize this, too, the way any addict can cover for their favorite poison. The veneer that is required to play the part of His Royal Highness Prince Dimitri cringes away from the naked vulgarity of his thoughts, his lustful cravings, but the beast that resides within knows that the tug of hunger in the low of his belly is punishment and reward both. When he is done, he will hate himself.

Really, that's all these specters desire.

He craves Professor Byleth in a way that rockets beyond carnal and sticks somewhere just shy of all-consuming; he wants them the way a wolf wants blood on its tongue. A groan tears out of him at the barest thought of them, and someone is still talking - Lambert's voice does not know the meaning of silence anymore - but Dimitri can no longer hear it above the ringing in his ears. There are footsteps in the hall when he gives up on the vibrations of his hand and tears the fastening of his pants, yet he can't bring himself to care.

(He'll bring them to Mercedes later; Saints know that this has happened before, albeit as an accident, and the veneer can withstand a lie. She will not ask questions. She knows all too well that he cannot answer them in any human tongue.)

It starts as a fire in his chest and an inflammation of his shoulder where the professor had touched him this morning, congratulating him for his thorough simulation of battlefield tactics in the essay he'd turned in the day before. Their hand had been so warm against him, even through the fabric of his clothes, and now he desperately wonders if skin-to-skin contact would blister and burn.

He can almost imagine it, desperate as he is, the lines of their body meeting his, making it bubble and ooze, char and broil, until all he is becomes a scar, a testament to them. Sharp nails carve lines into the ripened fruit of his skin, on the verge of puncture but never quite there, and there is a part of him that is rabid, that is frothing at the mouth and shaking apart.

Not really him, though, not yet.

Perfect, tidy Prince Dimitri is nowhere to be found here, among the clothes that are strewn across his floor like civilian casualties. He is hungry for more, hungry for the release of the tension that strings him up and flays him with barbed wire.

He is heavy in his own hand, and every drop of sweat and slickness feels like pus leaking from an infected wound. He craves, he craves, he craves, and the dry skin of his hand catches and chafes. He stifles a pain-pleasured sound in the fragile skin of his forearm, and he thinks of the way the professor smiles. There is nothing of a mask in them, no carefully laid veneer, and he wants to take them apart and consume them, digest their way of being so he can have it too.

Faster now, tongue catching against the points of teeth, ever so desperate and sharp. He wants to bear witness with his eyeteeth, brutalize with the only love he knows how to consciously give.

A door slams.

He slavers and snarls as his hand works faster, mindless, villainous Dimitri. The professor praises him, and he wonders if this is how exorcism feels to a demon, familiar with pain as they must be. If they exorcised him, how much would be left?

Faster, faster, and it hurts now, and he sinks his teeth into the flesh of his hand just to feel the parting of skin and the bittersalt of blood. If he hadn't, he might have _cacklecackled_ , the way he had read about in old Sreng poems of love and torture.

Make it hurt, because he wants them indescribably, the way a greedy man covets a watch, a wrist, a wife. Desirous and unholy is he, and there is a mad urge to fling the door open and let the whole world see.

And then it peaks, salt everywhere like a condemnation, and it is slipping down his cheeks and into his mouth without thought or purpose. That is what condemnation tastes like.

Come see your prince, citizens of Faerghus, he who is supposed to lead you! Dimitri is laughing now, silent and sharp in a way that tears at his vocal cords and smacks his head against his bedframe. Blood and sweat and spend, all the signs of a depraved man, they mingle on his skin. How long will it take for the wounds laid by the fangs of a beast to scab and scar?

Not long enough.

He is tired now, heartbruised and weary, and nothing is enough to soothe the raging storm that raises in his breast, clouds darkening and swelling until fat drops spill from his eyes. What a disgrace he is, defiling the professor with hardly any forethought or distress.

 _Lecherous, base creature that you are_ , Lambert growls as he swims into focus, manic and righteously cruel. _Do your actions truly surprise you all that much_?

No, Dimitri supposes they don't.

He will face the professor tomorrow, just as he always does, and the veneer of His Royal Highness Prince Dimitri will not falter.

What a despicable creature he is.

* * *

_Fate_

_Up against your will_

_Through the thick and thin_

_He will wait until_

_You give yourself to him_

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter @kingblaiddyd
> 
> one word reference to kim hyesoon's poem "onion" as well


End file.
